Meditation didn’t turn me into a perfectly calm person. I still overthink, get irritated in traffic, and rehearse conversations in my head. What it did change was my relationship with my thoughts.

Somewhere in the silence, I met the version of myself that exists underneath performance, anxiety, and distraction. The person I am when nobody is watching.

This piece is about meditation, identity, loneliness, inner peace, and learning that you are not your thoughts — you are the one observing them.

We were supposed to gather around fires, play outside until dark, and talk to each other without checking notifications every six seconds. Instead, we created passwords, dating apps, stress-tracking watches, and a society where everyone sits together staring at separate screens.

This piece is about modern life, loneliness, childhood nostalgia, technology overload, and the suspicion that maybe our brains never evolved for any of this.

Somewhere between awareness and self-preservation, I lost the ability to tell whether disconnecting from the world is healing or selfish. This piece lives in that uncertainty.

Modern adulthood feels less like maturity and more like repeatedly proving you’re not a robot while carrying an emotional support beverage and forgetting all 32 of your passwords. A humorous spiral into technology, pharmacies, identity verification, AI friendships, and the growing suspicion that none of us were designed for this level of nonsense.

A woman can spiral from coffee creamer to existential dread in under ten minutes inside a grocery store.

This piece is about suburbia, loneliness, frozen dinners, microwaves, aging, ego, therapy, vibrations, razor blades locked in security cases, and the strange desire to have someone to do boring errands with.

Basically, a normal Saturday morning in America.

Invisible Lines

Three poems about silence, identity, emotional distance, and the strange ways people try to reach each other without ever fully arriving.

Sometimes we speak in metaphors because the truth feels too large to say out loud.

Apparently there was once a period in my life where I attempted to physically wrestle myself into a “slimming” tank top before attending a party.

This resulted in:

• restricted breathing

• emotional instability

• side-hugging innocent children

• a possible traffic violation in Troy, Michigan

• and a deep spiritual hatred of salad

A repost from 2014, back when my inner monologue had absolutely no supervision.

In my twenties, I thought beauty, coolness, talent, and other people’s approval would finally make me feel okay.

Instead, I spent years struggling with insecurity, Bipolar Disorder, depression, mania, hospitals, friendship, spirituality, writing, meditation, and the slow process of learning how to actually like myself.

This piece is about the strange irony that I didn’t truly become comfortable with who I was until I stopped trying so hard to become someone else.

Sometimes life changes you slowly. Sometimes it breaks you open first.

Some days feel strangely heavy for no obvious reason.

Nightmares, dentists, broken printers, grocery shopping, grief, emotionally jarring music, and trying to remember that happiness is actually here right now.

A piece about ordinary life, minor annoyances, and the weird realization that peace of mind might be the only real currency that matters.

I wrote something personal about spirituality, meditation, and what happens when you briefly experience a kind of peace that makes ordinary life feel different afterward.

Not religion exactly.
More like trying to make sense of moments that feel more real than reality itself.

I didn’t plan to become this person.
But here we are: surviving on expired frozen dinners, avoiding fluorescent lighting, and pretending my life is interesting enough for tabloid headlines.

These poems came from a feeling I couldn’t quite explain—the sense that some of my thoughts arrived already edited, already rehearsed, already spoken by someone else first.

Empathy is something we talk about a lot—but I’m not sure we all mean the same thing when we say it.
This is about what it actually looks like… and what happens when it’s missing.

It’s true.

My parents tried to set me up with the carpet salesman at Art Van Furniture store.

No, I’m not kidding.

I’m older than the internet, which means I remember what it felt like to be bored… and to dream.
This is about growing up before everything got faster—and trying not to lose myself in it.

Quick disclaimer before you read this: I’m not in the same headspace as my last post. This one is…much lighter.

We got third place.
Out of three.

It involves a red carpet at a movie theater, a suspicious amount of popcorn, and a brief period where we collectively agreed to feel like winners anyway.

If you’ve ever believed “this is it” a little too early—you might enjoy this one.

Not how I feel right now—just something I wanted to put into words.

I have strong opinions about things I do not understand.

This is one of those moments.

I could have Googled all of this. I chose not to.

The line between truth and noise isn’t as clear as it used to be. At least, not to me.